


The 9th Day of Christmas: "The Man Who Would Be Santa"

by Anonymous



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade 12 Days of Christmas Challenge [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Bottom Castiel, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crack, Creature Castiel, Domestic Fluff, Elves, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, Kid Sam Winchester, M/M, Musician Dean Winchester, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2819654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re good at this,” Dean says. “Wrapping things, helping people, the whole ‘family’ business.”</p><p>***</p><p>Wherein Castiel is a disgruntled elf who runs away from the North Pole, Dean is a choir nerd with a tragic past and scars to prove it, and Sammy is a kid with a heart the size of the Nakatomi Plaza.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 9th Day of Christmas: "The Man Who Would Be Santa"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [The Collective](http://a-collectivemind.tumblr.com/) for letting me join the Destiel Smut Brigade, and also a big thanks to my betas, [B&E](http://bert-and-ernie-are-gay.tumblr.com/) and [Foz](http://fozmeadows.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> As per usual, I took the concept of "Christmas smut" and morphed it into whatever the hell this turned out to be. Here, enjoy some Chrimmis feels. 
> 
> (Sammy is ~four years old in this, but I also highly recommend rereading it imagining him as an adult at some point, because it becomes infinitely funnier.)

Castiel flicks the ash off his cigarette, takes one last puff as the bus rolls to a stop in front of him, and drops it to the ground, snuffing it out with his pointed boot. He blows the smoke out from between his lips and through his nostrils. It mixes with the cloud of condensation that curls into existence every time he breathes.

Canada is cold, but it’s warmer than home. It took some tricky spell work to get here, but he finally made it to North America.

He tosses his backpack over his shoulder and hands the bus driver his ticket, then climbs in and takes a seat.

Someone sits down next to him as he rummages through his bag for his headphones. He doesn’t bother looking up, but he can feel eyes on him, inspecting him.

“Heading home for the holidays, eh?” says the woman next to him.

Upon locating his headphones, Cas sighs when he sees they’ve morphed into bright Christmas tree lights with ear buds at the end.

“Not quite,” he replies, untangling the gangly mess of obnoxiously colorful lights.

“Whatcha got there?” she follows up, leaning in closer toward him.

He sighs again, wishing he’d foreseen both that Canadians are an unnecessarily friendly bunch—which, considering where he came from is definitely saying something—and how humans in general react to him.

“A mistake,” he mutters, and finally looks up at her.

The woman beams at him, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, perched on the seat and looking at him like he’s a tin of Christmas candy that just came in the mail.

“I’m Donna,” she says, and holds out her hand to him.

He takes it. “Castiel.”

“Nice to meet you, Castiel.” She lets go and leans back in her seat while the bus pulls forward with a high-pitched squeal of breaks. “So where ya headed?”

Cas untangles one knot and manages to make a bigger one in the process. “As far south as I can get.”

“Don’t like the cold, eh?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” At last he manages to unknot the headphones. Before Donna can reply, Castiel shoves them in his ears and snaps off one of the lights. They short out, flickering off, and he breathes a sigh of relief, resting his head against the iced-over window.

Despite the heavy blues in his ears, he can still hear the rhythmic, repetitive popping of Donna’s gum in her mouth, can still hear the continual squeaking of the breaks as the bus turns out of the station, but it’s okay, because with every moment that passes, he’s getting further away from home.

When the bus merges onto the highway, Cas’s eyelids grow heavy, and he nods off.

After several minutes, or maybe a couple hours, his iPod makes a horrendous screeching noise, and the soft sounds of the blues stop, replaced with:

_Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing: a ring_  
_I don't mean on the phone; Santa baby,_  
_So hurry down the chimney tonight_

Castiel rips his bastardized Christmas-light headphones out of his ears and throws them onto the backpack settled between his legs, along with his iPod and its offending music.

Of course the thing managed to turn from blue to bright green while he’d been asleep. He picks it up and presses the button.

The music that he put on it—Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, all of it—has been replaced with every holiday album known to man, including _A Partridge Family Christmas Card_ , all four _Home Alone_ soundtracks, and _Elvis Christmas_.

Donna is passed out in the seat beside him, so Cas presses his head against the glass again, muttering, “Fucking elf magic,” as he watches the road pass by.

***

The bus stops, and Cas climbs out behind Donna, who dashes over to a woman with short brown hair. Donna gives her a big hug, and looks back to wave goodbye to Castiel, who waves back at her, green iPod and re-tangled Christmas lights in hand.

Cas takes a deep breath and looks around. He's at the corner of a cobblestone street, white lights strung between antique lampposts. It's still cold, but slightly warmer than Canada, and flurries are falling from the overcast sky. Several skyscrapers dot the skyline in the distance, but the area he's standing in looks dilapidated; abandoned buildings surround him with planks of wood covering the windows.

He walks into the small bus station to speak to the attendant. According to the badge on the man’s breast pocket, his name is Victor.

Cas asks, "Excuse me, there's no departure time on my ticket. Do you know when the bus to New Orleans will be arriving?"

The man doesn't look up from his monitor as he replies, gruff, "Canceled.”

"What do you mean, 'canceled'? Shouldn't it just be... delayed?"

Victor looks at Cas and sighs. "No, I mean canceled. Gonna be a blizzard coming our way, all lines are stopped until further notice."

Cas wipes a hand down his face. "Fucking great. I don't have a place to stay."

"There's a hotel on the corner of Ludlow and Third," Victor replies, and adds, "Have a good day, and stay warm out there," before sliding the window shut between them.

With an exasperated groan, Cas shoves his useless bus ticket in his back pocket and shoulders his pack. He leaves the building, takes a deep breath, and, looking either way down the street, spots a small coffee shop a couple blocks down.

By the time he reaches it, the flurries have turned into thick chunks of snow that accumulate on his shoulders and stay clumped in his eyelashes.

A bell jingles above the door as he enters, and he breathes a sigh of relief at his surroundings. A fire roars in a hearth in the middle of the small space, and the atmosphere is warm and inviting. Cas is thankful that the music is soft and classical with no holiday connotations to it at all. The only Christmas decorations he can see are a wreath on the exit, and large, shimmering Christmas baubles hanging from the ceiling.

Pointedly ignoring the décor, he walks up to the counter and orders a small black coffee from a brunette woman with a lewd smile.

"That'll be two-fifty," she says with a slow drawl, sliding a small cup over to him.

Cas pulls out his wallet from his pocket and opens it to find that his American currency has turned into Monopoly money.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters to himself, staring into his wallet.

"Is there a problem, Clarence?" the barista asks, leaning forward onto the counter and popping an eyebrow at him.

"No, it's just... you know what? Nevermind. Sorry about that." Cas folds his useless wallet and puts it back in his pocket, then moves to the side so that the man behind him can order.

"Hey, don't worry about it, I got it," the man says as he walks up to the counter, handing the woman a five dollar bill. "Make that two. Thanks, Meg."

He smiles at Cas while Meg pours another coffee, and Cas can't speak. The man has eyes that are a rival to the gaudy brightness of the baubles floating above them, cheekbones that could cut a Christmas ham, and a smile as dazzling as the star on top of a tree.

Castiel manages to utter a small, "Thank you."

"Happens to me all the time," he tells Cas with a wink.

Meg slides over another cup of coffee across the counter, and the man picks up both of them with another thanks. He turns to Castiel and holds out one of the coffees.

Cas takes it with a small nod, avoiding his gaze.

The man steps forward too close into Cas's personal space so the person behind him can order. Cas should probably take a step back, but he's frozen on the spot, distracted by the man's lips as he takes a sip of his coffee.

He leans against the counter, and gestures to Cas's backpack with a nod. "Hope you're not headed anywhere tonight. Blizzard's coming our way."

Cas sighs and looks down at his feet, his pack resting forlorn against his leg. "I tried. The bus lines are all shut down."

"Damn. You got a place to stay, though, right?"

Castiel shakes his head, having genuinely no idea what he's going to do without any actual currency in his pocket. No amount of travel reading had prepared him for the magical shenanigans that would occur having crossed into a different reality.

"Shit," the man replies with a sigh. When Cas looks up at him, he's scratching the back of his neck and darting his eyes around the room. "Look, this is... really weird, actually, and I can't believe I'm doing this, but do you want to crash at my place? I have a couch, and I know my baby brother would love to have you.”

For the first time, Castiel is utterly grateful for his effect on humans. It’s the first blip of magic he’s encountered that’s been helpful instead of harmful.

It would be morally wrong, however, to accept the man’s offer, given that it’s something he wouldn’t have done if Cas didn’t possess an allure akin to that of fresh-baked Christmas cookies.

“It’s fine,” Cas replies. “I’ll manage. Thank you for the coffee.” He shoulders his pack and heads for the door, but the man follows after him and stops him with a hand to his shoulder.

“I’m… I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean says with a crooked smile.

“Castiel,” Cas replies, tentatively holding his hand out for Dean to shake. “Most el— _people_ call me Cas.”

“Cas,” Dean repeats, and smiles wider.

Cas stares at him, dazed and feeling like someone punched him in the gut.

Dean shakes off the grin and clears his throat. “Look, man, I don’t mean to be pushy or anything… but you don’t have any money and you’re probably gonna be stuck in Dayton a while. I was planning on ordering a pizza for Sammy and me tonight, and we can’t eat the whole thing ourselves.  You seem like a nice guy, so, you know,” he darts his gaze around, and concludes, “you should come hang out with us, watch the game.” With a nonchalant shrug, he adds, “People… shouldn’t be alone this time of year.” He looks away and takes another gulp of his coffee.

Although he doesn’t have much of a choice, Castiel’s gut instinct is to trust the kindness behind Dean’s eyes.

Worst case scenario, he can maybe magic his way out of trouble, though with the pattern of things, he doesn’t put much faith in his powers.

Cas takes a deep breath and replies with a nod. “Alright.”

Dean beams and claps him on the shoulder, then spins him around and heads toward the door.

“I like your sweater by the way,” he says as he holds the door open for Cas.

Before he steps through, Cas looks down at himself. What was once a plain gray hoodie has turned into a bright red, knit sweater with a felted Christmas tree and happy little bears sewn onto it.

The lights on the Christmas tree are foil, and shimmer in the soft light of the coffee house. With a sigh, he mutters, “God _dammit.”_

***

They get to Dean’s apartment, which is a small brick building in what looks to be a part of town as run-down as the rest of the city. They walk down a short flight of stairs, and Dean fiddles with unlocking the door. As it swings open, the sounds of cartoons fill the air, along with high-pitched whining. “…but I don’t want the broc’li, I just want the ranch!” to which a woman patiently replies, “I’ll tell Dean if you don’t eat your broccoli.”

“Tattle-tale!” the small voice shouts.

When they walk in, a child stands up from his spot in front of the coffee table and runs over to Dean, wrapping his small arms around Dean’s legs.

“Hey, buddy.” Dean picks him up by the armpits and sets him against his side. “You givin’ Aunt Jo a hard time again?”

“No!” Sammy defends.

A woman—young, blond, smiling in mild amusement—wipes a blob of ranch dressing off the table before standing up and hugging Dean. “Who’s this?” she asks, eyeing Cas.

Cas, again, doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hovers around the doorway, not sure if he’s invited in, a sudden nervousness welling in his gut.

“Sammy, Jo, this is my friend Cas,” Dean replies, and turns himself so that Sammy can see him.

Sammy waves a chubby little hand shyly, then presses his face into the crook of Dean’s shoulder.

“Cas, this is my baby brother Sam and my friend Jo.”

Jo smiles and reaches her hand out for Cas to take.  “I like your sweater,” she says with a grin.

Cas smiles back, tight-lipped, and shakes her hand, hoping that the remaining clothes in his pack have remained un-Christmas’d. “Thanks.”

“Cas is going to be staying with us while the weather’s bad,” Dean says. “That okay, Sammy?”

Sam nods against Dean’s shoulder and lets out a muffled, “Uh huh.”

Dean kisses his head and rubs his back, then asks Jo, “You wanna stay for pizza? I’m gonna put Sam to bed and turn on the football game if you wanna join us.”

“Nah, I promised Mom we’d watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_ tonight. I’ll see you at choir tomorrow though, okay?” Jo reaches up on her tip-toes and kisses Dean’s cheek.

“Sure thing.”

Jo smiles at Cas and says, “It was nice meeting you, Cas.”

“You too,” Cas replies, then watches as she skirts around him and walks out the door, not carrying anything in hand. She takes two paces and opens the door to the apartment across the hallway, where Cas catches a glimpse of a couple dancing in a living room the same size and shape of Dean’s apartment. A bearded man in a ballcap and flannel hums along to “White Christmas,” swaying slowly with a woman who looks like an older, brunette version of Jo.

 As Jo closes the door, she says playfully, “Ugh, get a room!”

Dean sets Sammy down and takes off his jacket. Sam immediately darts onto the couch and curls up onto it, watching Cas with wide eyes.

“Come on in,” Dean says. “Make yourself at home.”

Cas walks in and sets his backpack against the wall, closing the door behind him. He stands in the landing awkwardly, looking around Dean’s apartment, which is small but homely, with a lumpy beige couch and a CRT television across from it. A coffee table sits between the two, covered crayon-scribbled drawings. A chest sits in the corner, bursting with toys that are scattered about the room.

Dean starts picking them up and tossing them back in the box. “Sorry about the mess.”

Cas smiles, and the tension in his muscles ease. “It’s fine. Reminds me of home, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks with a short glance up at Cas as he tosses a plastic fire truck into the toy chest. It makes a honking noise when it hits the bottom, and then goes quiet. “Where’s that?”

Before Cas can think up a lie, he blurts out, “The North Pole.”

Dean snorts a laugh and straightens the papers on the coffee table. “I know it’s cold out, man, but it’s not _that_ bad.”

Cas stares, mouth slightly agape before he blinks and corrects, “I’m from Toronto.”  

It’s the first lie he’s ever told.

Well, the second, if he’s being technical. Leaving the castle to chop firewood and then venturing off into another reality was also a bit of a lie.

“Dean!” Sammy shouts from the couch, and waves Dean over to him.

Dean stops cleaning and sits down on the couch, then leans toward Sam when he continues gesturing emphatically.

Sam whispers in his ear and Dean’s face hardens in consternation. He furrows his brow and nods, says, “Uh huh,” a couple times, then sits up and asks, “Are you sure you want me to ask that?”

Sam nods.

Dean looks up at Cas and, completely serious, says, “Sam likes your sweater, and wants to know if you prefer Batman or Superman, and he’s wondering if you might be interested in playing Candy Land later.”

Sammy pushes Dean’s shoulder and makes an exasperated noise.

“What?” Dean asks him.

Sam whispers, “The concert.”

Dean sighs, and adds with the crooked smile that Cas is starting to enjoy all too much, “Sammy wants to know if you want to come to the choir concert tomorrow.”

Sammy leans over the side of the couch so he can look at Cas, brown eyes wide.

Cas smiles, and something wrenches in his gut, a sense of gratitude to be in a home like this, seeing the fruits of his family’s work. After a thoughtful pause, he replies, “Captain America is my favorite superhero, but of the DC canon, I can appreciate both Batman and Superman for different reasons. I’d love to play Candy Land with you, and I would be honored to go to tomorrow’s choir concert.”

Dean turns to Sammy, “See? You don’t have to be shy. He’s nice.”

Sam slides off the couch and walks over to Cas. He stares up at him with floppy hair that drapes a little bit over his eyes, and beams up at him, showing two big dimples on either side of his face. He lifts one of his arms and takes Cas’s hand in his, pulling urgently toward the hallway.

“I’ll go ahead and order the pizza. Good luck!” Dean calls after them.

***

Castiel awakens the next morning, bolting upright as he takes in his surroundings.

Small apartment, lumpy couch, coffee table, old TV. Sun streams through a tiny crack at the top of a small window covered in snow. He wipes a hand down his face and gets his bearings, then notices a note on the table, next to a tray of what appear to be pastries covered with pink cellophane.

The note reads in a messy scrawl:

_Cas—_

_Merry Christmas Eve!_

Cas’s eye twitches minutely, but he continues reading.

_Hope I didn’t wake you. Took Sammy to daycare to get a few hours in at the shop before the storm hits. Choir concert is at 6._

_Make yourself at home. There are clean towels in the linen closet and I kept the coffee pot on with a cup set out for you._

_Sammy & I made the cinnamon rolls a couple days ago. He threw in extra baking soda before I could catch him so they’re not great but they haven’t killed me yet._

_Jo, Ellen, & Bobby are across the hall if you need anything. Or you can text me. _

_Hope you slept well. I’ll shut up now._

_-D_

There’s a ten-digit number at the bottom that Cas presumes is Dean’s phone number, though it’s mostly useless because Cas lacks a phone.

He unwraps the cellophane from the tray of cinnamon rolls and picks one up, smells it, then licks the icing. Like the pizza he ate the night prior, it’s a completely new experience for him. At home, he ate plenty of sugar cookies with and without icing, but the melted drizzle on the cinnamon roll is immediately enticing. He chews a small, tentative bite thoughtfully, and his eyes widen. It’s like a combination of a dinner roll and a sugar cookie, so Cas takes another, bigger bite.

Dean had laughed when Cas told him he’d never eaten pizza, and then laughed harder at the quizzical face Cas made after his first bite. Then he blushed and cleared his throat when Cas moaned around his second and third bites. By the time the pizza was gone, Sammy had fallen asleep on Castiel’s lap, and Cas was full and happy and heavy-lidded.

Dean took Sam to bed, and when he came back, Cas heard the TV turn off and the feel of a blanket cover his body, the brief brush of tentative fingers through his hair. It sent a small shiver down his spine, and he slept easy after that.

Cas finishes the cinnamon roll and gets up to pour himself coffee. Dean left him out a mug with a rainbow on one side of the handle, and _Cleveland Gay Games 9_ on the other. Cas eyes it with curiosity as he pours the coffee into it.

As he sips it, he pads around the kitchen, over to the fridge, a dulled yellow antique that rattles loudly. It’s covered in crayon drawings of stick-figure families in front of a big house. There are cartoon characters Cas recognizes from his training courses at home—long days of movie and television show marathons in a massive room with a mattress for a floor, eating popcorn and drinking slushies until they’re caught up on current media—pictures of Sam with pasta sauce on his face, of Dean holding him and grinning. There are many magnets with references that Cas doesn’t understand, including one that reads, _“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,”_ and a grocery list on a lined pad of paper, a pen perched at the top.

The newest item on the fridge, though, is a scrawled crayon drawing of a Christmas tree. There’s an angel at the top, yellow ribbons of tinsel wrapped around it, and large boxes of presents underneath. In the lower corner is a large stick figure and a small one, with the names _Dean_ and _Sammy_ written below them. Half of each of the words is scrawled in large, crooked lettering. The ‘e’ in Dean is backwards, and the remainder of the word is written in what Cas recognizes as a purple-crayon version of Dean’s writing, traced over with the green of Sammy’s. In the opposite corner, two more stick figure characters are floating above the tree, a man with brown hair and brown eyes, and a blond woman with blue eyes. They’re holding hands and they each have silver wings and yellow halos. Their captions, in Sammy’s writing, read _Mom_ and _Dad_.

The hot coffee scalds Cas’s throat as he swallows the lump lodged there. He takes a deep breath and looks away from the fridge, lets his feet guide him into the hallway. Dusty, framed pictures line the long walls, faded portraits of a woman with feathered blond hair, blue eyes, and a bright, wide smile. In many of them, she’s next to a man who looks at her instead of the camera, grinning and dimpled, touching her or holding her or kissing her. In one of them, her stomach is swollen large and she’s wearing a blue dress the color of her eyes, looking down at her hands resting on her belly. There’s a picture of the young couple in a hospital, holding a newborn infant in their arms. Next to it is a similar picture where the couple is much older, a teenaged Dean perched at the foot of the hospital bed, looking at the baby with happy reverence.

Cas reaches the first door, and curiosity gets the best of him. He quietly turns the knob and opens it to find a clean, plain bedroom. A full-size bed rests in the center—a mattress on the floor—covered in a blue quilt that barely stretches over it, and heather gray sheets. A crate sits on its side next to the bed, vinyl records slotted inside it and an old lamp on top.

The only other furnishing in the room is a wooden bookshelf filled with so many books that the shelves sag in the center. The books are shoved in every which way, with some titles Cas recognizes, but most he doesn’t; authors like Vonnegut, Kerouac, Heinlein, and Asimov. An entire shelf is devoted to something called Dungeons & Dragons, and half of the second shelf is stacked high with comic books in plastic sleeves.

A dusty, silver framed picture of the couple inhabits a corner of the topmost shelf. The couple looks older than they were in the hallway, and they hold each other on an autumn day next to their sons, smiling at the camera. Dean looks close to his present age, and Sammy sits on his shoulders. He’s smaller, his face is chubbier, and he has dark, uneven wisps of hair that barely cover his scalp. He only has a couple teeth but he’s smiling gummy and wide, hugging Dean’s head as Dean looks up at him and smiles. Stuck in the corner of the frame is a curled-up picture of Sam, older, in front of a plain blue background, grinning at the camera with his floppy hair and dimples and several more teeth than in the photo behind it.

The rest of the items are bereft of dust, and they clutter the small space: a stick of deodorant, a silver watch, some loose change, receipts, lip balm, a comb. It’s the only messy surface in an otherwise pristine room. The closet door lays open, and Cas peers into it. Flannel shirts and cotton t-shirts of varying colors are lined neatly on black plastic hangers, two pairs of shoes on the floor below, and an empty hamper beside them.

This is the kind of room Castiel has always wanted: simple, clean, utilitarian. It’s minimal yet cozy, so unlike the gaudy rooms of his home. Every inch of the castle is covered in permanent Christmas décor, bustling with constant activity, shiny baubles floating around and different music clashing out of every room. There’s no privacy, no individuality. Cas’s space has always been whatever bed he fell into at the end of a long day of toy-making, rows upon rows of candy cane bunk beds, fitted with soft, worn sheets that smell like freshly fallen snow.

A crackling fire roars in the fireplace of every single room, stockings hung above them wherein Castiel receives his daily duties. Most of his life, he built toys from the magical instructions provided to him, but in the last few years, he was promoted to toy conception; and even more recently, one-on-one meetings with the man himself to discuss his newest ideas.

Cas sighs and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him despite the emptiness of the apartment. He ventures to the next room, whose door is already cracked slightly, and pushes it open the rest of the way. The entire room is lit by a small Christmas tree in the corner on the floor, next to another toy chest. A small bed sits against the opposite wall, covered in stuffed animals and messy blankets, a white wooden frame wrapped around most of the edge creating a barrier.

Cas kneels in front of the Christmas tree and stares at the multi-colored lights. Construction-paper candy canes hang from the little branches, and the few other ornaments dot around it. An angel tops the tree, also made of construction paper, and popcorn threaded by floss adorns the entirety of it in a lopsided spiral.

There are no gifts underneath, and Castiel notices for the first time that Sammy’s tree, along with the picture on the fridge, are the only Christmas decorations in the apartment.

Cas shifts his position in front of the tree, cross-legged, and thumbs over a branch. He’s normally more comfortable in places which lack the Christmas spirit, but the Christmas spirit is in this place, yet pointedly ignored, abandoned, forgotten. It’s covered up in the same way dust covers the picture frames, the way Sammy’s drawings and toys cover every available surface. The belongings in the apartment tell Cas of happy lives that have been darkened by tragedy, memories discarded and neglected by pain.

As much as Cas wants to know what happened, he doesn’t need the details to understand the outcome: two brothers with only each other, orphaned by catastrophe, and the small home they’ve managed to build from the remains.

***

At five p.m., the front door crashes open and Sammy runs into the apartment screaming, _“POTTY POTTY POTTY POTTY POTTY…”_ as he flails down the hallway and into the bathroom.

Dean walks in and closes the door behind him, loops his messenger bag over his head and sets it on the ground before taking off his coat. “Sorry about that. The potty training’s been successful, but we’re still working on bathroom manners.”

Cas puts the note Dean left for him that morning in _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ before closing the book.

Dean stares at it a moment and asks, “Didn’t peg you for a C.S. Lewis kinda guy.”

Cas replies, “I’ve always found the imagery of children’s literature compelling.” He sets the book down on the coffee table, and averts his eyes as he asks, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Nah,” Dean says as he sits on the couch with a huff, sprawled out as he toes off his shoes. “I’m just glad you found my library before I got the chance to brag about it.”

The toilet flushes in the distance and Sam comes running out, bereft of pants and yanking his t-shirt over his head. He trips, falls, clambers back up, and jumps on Dean’s lap.

Dean makes an _oof!_ sound and pulls Sammy’s shirt off the rest of the way. “Did you wash your freakin’ hands?”

“No-I-forgot,” Sam replies as a single word. “When’re-we-going-to-the-concert?!”

“Soon as you wash your hands and we get ready.” Dean sets him back on the ground, and Sam takes off, running around the coffee table twice before darting back down the hallway, all the while screaming, _“EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”_

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “I think someone gave him Christmas candy today.”

Cas nods. “That would make sense, yes.”

Dean checks his watch. _“Shit_. We gotta hurry up. We have to be across down in forty-five minutes.” He stops himself and looks up, wide-eyed. “I mean, if you wanna come. You don’t have to come. It’s not a big deal. You can hang out here, or… or whatever you wanna do.”

Dean looks so bewildered and frazzled, one hand gripping his knee, and Cas notices the black around his fingernails, another black smudge on his forearm. His white t-shirt, which grips his chest in a way that makes Cas’s throat go dry, is covered in similar smudges. His hair is messier than it was yesterday, but his eyes look bright, eyebrows raised as he waits for Cas’s answer.

“Yes,” Cas blurts out, because he’d need to be a much stronger elf to conjure the magic it would take to say no to that face. He stops himself and closes his eyes briefly, “I’m sorry, though, what kind of concert is it again?”

Dean shrugs. “Just my community college choir. Christmas music. Probably pretty boring, actually.”

Of course it’s Christmas music. Of course.

But it’s still something important to Dean, so Cas sets aside the unsettling dread in his stomach and smiles. “Sounds great.”

“Awesome.” Dean beams. He looks Cas up and down, then to Cas’s backpack on the ground, and asks, tentative, “I know it’s just a community college thing, but it’s actually, uhh… kind of a fancy event. If you don’t have anything, that’s fine, you can borrow some of my clothes.”

Earlier that day, to Cas’s immense horror, all of his clothes but a gray v-neck t-shirt and a pair of slacks turned into Christmas attire. Even his sweatpants managed to morph into a candy-striped onesie, complete with footies and a button-up patch on the rear.

“That works.”

Dean lets out a heavy breath and says, “Great. Let’s go pick something out, and then you can get dressed while I hop in the shower.”

Cas follows Dean into his bedroom, which looks different in the evening. The soft yellow glow of the lamp makes the small space cozier somehow, warmer and more inviting. Cas stares at the mattress and imagines Dean on it, what he might look like first thing in the morning when the sun is streaming through the gaps in the blinds. He imagines strong, freckled shoulders and messy, honey-golden hair; his feet sticking out from under the quilt and off the edge of the bed; his body curling up into the covers to sleep another few minutes despite Sammy jumping up and down on it, urging him awake.

Cas is pulled out of his reverie when Dean shoves a shirt in front of him. “How’s this?”

He takes the shirt and inspects it. It’s dark blue, neatly pressed, and looks about Cas’s size. Cas meets Dean’s hopeful glance, and Dean says, shy smile pulling at his lips, “Matches your eyes.”

Cas can feel his face grow hot, and he doesn’t know how to respond. He can list the serial numbers of every big toy this season from memory, but all he can do when Dean looks at him, shining green eyes and crooked grin, is avert his gaze and hide his smile. “This should be fine. Thank you.”

Dean drapes a tie over the hanger as an afterthought, and claps him on the shoulder. “Alright, if you could, keep an ear out for Sammy while I get cleaned up.”

Cas nods and Dean crosses the hallway into the bathroom.

***

Ten minutes later, Castiel is as dressed as he can get, already has his sleeves rolled up, but only half his shirt is tucked in as he tries to calm an enraged Sammy.

Dean runs into his bedroom, sopping wet, nothing but a towel draped low on his hips. “Everything okay?”

Cas sits at the edge of the mattress, cross-legged as Sam writhes in his lap, pushes him at the chest and cries into it and then hits him again. He tries to get ahold of his wrists, but Sam is too nimble.

“I don’t—“ Cas begins, and pitches his voice louder over the screaming. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Dean tucks the edge of the towel in further and pulls Sam from Cas’s grasp, then sets him on the ground and kneels in front of him. “What’s wrong with you, man?”

Sammy’s face is bright red as tears fall down his cheeks, and he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Dean reaches over to the box of tissues on the crate by his bed, and takes Sam’s hand down from his face, wipes the tears and the snot away.

Cas trails his eyes down Dean’s bare back. Massive blotches of wrinkled red skin stretch from the top of his right shoulder blade all the way down to his hip where it disappears into his towel, picks up again at his calf, and stops at his ankle.

When Cas puts the pieces together, he busies himself by buttoning the rest of his shirt.

Sam hits Dean’s hand and throws himself onto the ground, kicking and screaming and wailing.

Dean rubs his back and shushes him. “What’s wrong, buddy?”

After a few moments, Sam sits upright and looks at Dean, large droplets of tears still in his eyes. Dean wipes his hair to the side of his face. “Talk to me, Sam.”

Lip quivering, tiny voice breaking, Sam says quietly, “Mommy and Daddy went to your concert with us last year.”

Dean freezes, hand hovering in front of him, and his jaw clenches.

Cas stands up slowly from the bed and says, “I should…” while edging to the door.

Dean nods once, not meeting his gaze, and Cas slips out of the room, shutting the door most of the way behind him.

In the hallway, he can hear Dean whisper, “I know, Sam. They can’t…” His voice breaks as he continues, “They can’t make it this year.”

“I miss Mommy and Daddy,” Sam replies between quiet sobs.

“I know, Sammy. I miss them too, but we gotta be glad for what we’ve got. We have each other. We have Ellen and Bobby and Jo. We have Cas, too, for however long he’s gonna stay with us. We’re gonna try to have a good Christmas, because that’s what Mom and Dad would want, okay?”

Sam doesn’t reply, but Cas hears sniffling, something muttered, and Dean says, “Can you be good for Cas for a minute while I get dressed?”

After a pause, the door swings open, and Dean stares at Cas with red-rimmed eyes. Sammy walks out of the room and immediately goes into his own, head bowed.

“Sorry you had to hear that,” Dean says, leaning against the doorframe and looking at his feet. He tucks his right leg behind his left, angles his body so that Cas can’t see the scarring.

“It’s fine,” Cas replies. “I’m… sorry for your loss.”

Dean shrugs. “Shit happens.”

They stand in thoughtful silence until Dean says, “Alright, I’ll be quick. We’re running late,” and closes the door.

***

Sam manages to dress himself about as well as Cas does, so when Dean opens the door to his bedroom again, they’re both sitting in the hallway waiting for him, rumpled and hopeless.

Cas’s breath catches in his throat when he moves his eyes up Dean’s body, up the carefully pressed black slacks, the tailored suit jacket, the black waistcoat, all the way up to a white bowtie, knotted neatly at his collar.

Cas stands and says, “You look… great,” before he can stop himself.

“Thanks,” Dean replies before staring at Cas’s horrific excuse for a tie. “You need some help with that?” he asks, nodding his head to Cas’s collar.

“Yes, please.”

Dean takes the tie and pulls Cas into the room, sets him closer to the light and unties it with quick fingers. When it’s unknotted, he buttons the top button of Cas’s collar and goes about re-tying.

Cas stares at the way the warm light hits Dean’s plush lip bitten between his teeth, cascades across his long lashes fanned over sharp cheekbones. He’s close enough to count the smattering of freckles across the bridge of Dean’s nose, the barest of dots around his eyelids and cheeks.  Cas’s heart pounds in his chest, and it takes all of his willpower not to step closer, to take his hand and urge Dean’s fingers through his own, feel their lips pressed together.

When Dean is done, he tightens the necktie one last time and looks up at Cas, smiling.

He meets Cas’s gaze, and his smile drops. Cas’s lips are slightly parted, eyes wide. The tension flows between them, heavy and electric. Dean reaches up and caresses Cas’s neck, takes a small step closer, and flicks his eyes down to his lips. A shiver runs up Cas’s spine and he leans in—

“Can we go now?!” Sammy shouts from below.

Dean takes a quick step back and clears his throat.

“Yeah… yeah, let’s get going,” Dean says, voice rough, and books it out of the room.

Cas stares after him until Sam tugs at his hand and leads him to follow Dean.

***

Cas takes a seat in the back row of a large auditorium, Sammy in tow. Ellen and Bobby have reserved seats in the front, and Sam was supposed to sit with them. Instead, he insisted on staying with Cas so he wouldn’t be alone all the way in the back.

Sam climbs onto his own seat, can’t see over the tops of anyone’s heads, then crawls onto Cas’s lap.

The drive to the college auditorium was mostly terrifying given the weather, but Dean drove his beast of a vehicle—which he referred to as _Baby_ —like it had ice skates instead of wheels. Whenever they fishtailed out of a slick spot, Dean would pat the dashboard and say, “C’mon, Baby, we got this, you can do it. We’ve been through worse.”

By the time they made it to the theater, Cas was thankful to be on solid ground.

Sam opens up Cas’s hand and inspects it while they wait for the concert to start. He measures it against his own, tiny fingers barely taking up the entirety of Cas’s palm. He traces over all the lines and bends all the knuckles, turns Cas’s hand over, picks it up and drops it, again and again.

Cas huffs a laugh and kisses the top of Sam’s head. Something in his heart aches, hurts him physically, in the way it feels to eat too much food after almost starving to death, to finally reach an oasis in the desert. It’s too much and not enough, and for the first time since he’s been on this journey, he reflects, not where he’s going, but how far he’s come to get here; how thankful he is to have found this place, these people.

“What’s your job?” Sam asks, tilting his head to the side as he continues inspecting Cas’s hand, enrapt.

“I make toys,” Cas replies.

“That’s neat,” Sam says. “I like toys. My friend Jess at school doesn’t have any though so I showed her my Batman and she said girls don’t play with Batmans.”

“Why doesn’t she have any toys?” Cas asks, brow furrowed.

Sam shrugs, a large movement for his tiny frame, and prods the muscle of Cas’s thumb. “Dean said that sometimes parents can’t… _afforded_ toys and that maybe Jess doesn’t have a big brother to give her all his old toys like he gives me, but if she’s not allowed to play with Batmans then a big brother wouldn’t be able to help anyway.”

Cas nods, solemn, and opts to steer the conversation toward happier territory. “So what did you ask Santa for Christmas?”

Sam shrugs again. “Nothing. Dean keeps saying,” he pitches his voice lower, “ _‘Don’t get your hopes up, Sammy. It’s been a rough year for Santa,’”_  then pauses before adding, resolutely, _“_ I wanted to ask for my Mommy and Daddy back but Dean told me Santa can’t do that, so instead I asked for Jess to get all the toys I woulda got ‘cept for the Batmans.”

Cas clenches his jaw and swallows the sudden tightness in his throat. Any words he could say in response die on his tongue, and when Sam goes to lift Cas’s arm, Cas closes his hand around the little one in his palm.

The curtains open, and several dozen people dressed in formal attire come from each side of the stage to fill up the risers.

The choir master follows behind, and she acknowledges the audience with a brief bow before addressing the choir.  

Cas spots Dean in the back row, dead center. He holds a black folder in front of him like the rest of the choir, and stares into the audience, face blank.

The choir master raises her arms and they begin singing.

_Hark how the bells,_  
_sweet silver bells,_  
_all seem to say,_  
_throw cares away_  
_Christmas is here,_  
_bringing good cheer,_  
_to young and old,_  
_meek and the bold…_

“Carol of the Bells” is possibly the only Christmas song that hasn’t oversaturated itself in Cas’s mind. The rest of them make him nauseous in the same way he feels after eating an entire plate of fudge.

Sammy stays still in Cas’s lap, picking idly at his shoe string and watching the choir with his full attention.

The air shifts beside him and pops.

A sudden presence at his side says, “Bet you an entire tray of Anna’s peppermint bark that Dean’s the one who goes _‘bonggg’_ at the end.”

An unwelcome chill runs up Cas’s spine and he slowly turns his head toward his brother. “What are you doing here, Gabriel?”

To Cas’s immense dismay, Gabriel is decked out in elf attire—a bright red jumpsuit with green glitter buttons and a matching pointed hat—as though he didn’t even attempt to look like a human being before crossing realms. Even his ears are pointed. It’s a simple spell to round them out, and given the secrecy of their whole operation, Cas hopes Gabriel just looks like a Christmas-happy lunatic instead of an excessively sassy, high-ranking elf.

Sammy turns around to look at Gabriel and bring his finger to his lips with a rough, “ _Shh_!”

Gabriel glares at him and scoffs. “ _Excuse_ you.” Nevertheless, he whispers more quietly to Cas, “I came to bring you home. Tomorrow’s the big day and Santa needs you back at the castle ASAP.”

Castiel sighs. “I’m not coming with you, Gabriel. I don’t want to go back there.”

Sammy climbs off of Cas’s lap and onto Gabriel’s, stands up on his thighs and looks him square in the face. “ _Be quiet!_ This is Dean’s concert and he worked really hard and you need to leave Cas alone and… and… _shut up.”_

Gabriel frowns at him. “Hey, kid, don’t make me put you on the naughty list.”

Sam looks at his ridiculous get-up, eyes narrowed, then pulls at Gabriel’s ears and inspects them. “Do you make toys with Cas?”

“I sure do.” Gabriel winces and gasps when Sam yanks on his ear. “Ow! Watch it! These aren’t fake, you know.”

“With Santa? At the North Pole?” Sam asks, skeptical.

Gabriel sighs, “ _Of course_ with Santa at the North Pole—” He looks to Cas, “What are you telling these people about yourself?”

“You’ve been spying on me,” Cas replies, eyes on the stage and arms crossed over his chest. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Oh come on, the Monopoly money and footie pajamas were _funny_.”

Cas glares at Gabriel, and says sharply, “No, it wasn’t. I would have frozen to death in an alley were it not for Dean’s kindness.”

 _“Yeah,”_ Sam says, and shoves a finger in Gabriel’s chest. “Cas is _ours_ now, so _go away.”_

Gabriel glowers at Sam, picks him up off of his lap and sets him back on Cas’s. In a harsh whisper, he says to Cas, “You have until the end of the concert, and then I bring reinforcements,” before disappearing with another pop.

When he’s gone, Sammy mumbles, “I don’t care if he puts me on the naughty list, that guy is a _jerk_ and Dean’s gonna protect you from him if he comes back. You’ll see.”

Cas smiles, and the song ends. Dean does, in fact, give the endnote, and Cas and Sam clap excitedly for him.

***

“So you’re from Canada,” Bobby says to Cas with a squint.

A reception is held after the concert, and Sam, Ellen, and Bobby wait for Dean and Jo in the cafeteria.

“Yes, I am,” Cas replies. For good measure, he adds a hesitant, “…eh?” and sips his punch.

Bobby takes a slow bite of his cookie, eyes still narrowed on Cas.

Ellen whacks him on the shoulder with the hand that’s not holding Sammy on her hip. “Leave the boy alone. It’s Christmas.”

Dean and Jo walk into the cafeteria, arms linked and laughing. Jo’s gown barely grazes the linoleum as she walks, the clack of her high heels echoing in the hallway.

Dean grins when he sees them, and pulls each of them in for a hug. Cas is last, and when Dean breaks away, his smile falters. He looks down at his feet before clearing his throat and diverting his attention to Sammy, whom he takes out of Ellen’s arms, then tosses him up in the air and catches him.

Sammy giggles in delight so forcefully that he snorts, and Dean presses him to his hip. “So what’d you think? Did we sound terrible?”

Jo punches his shoulder. “Shut up, we sounded great.”

“Damn right you did,” Bobby says, finishing his cookie and picking up another.

Ellen takes the cookie out of his hand. “Just because the ticket said ‘complementary refreshments’ doesn’t mean you can eat the whole damn buffet.”

They all stand together, eating cookies and drinking punch and making small talk. Dean introduces everyone to Ms. Moseley the choir master when she makes her rounds, along with his other choir friends when they stop by to congratulate each other.

Cas stays mostly quiet, watching the proceedings with interest: the calm, easy way Dean interacts with everyone; the laughter and familiarity between all of them; the welcoming atmosphere. It reminds him of home except lacking in the immense burden of purpose put upon everyone to achieve and succeed and thrive.

It feels like the thing Cas has always worked for but never managed to achieve.

It feels like what Christmastime should feel like.

Despite Dean’s outward mirth, he still keeps Sam in his sight, even after he sets him at a table and gets him a cookie and punch. There’s a glare in Dean’s eyes, a protective ferocity that reminds Cas of earlier in the evening, taking in the massive swirls of scar tissue over his back, the crack in his voice, the redness around his eyes.

Cas forgets all about Gabriel, about home. He laughs inwardly at the ever-present bickering between Ellen and Bobby, outwardly at the banter Dean and Jo throw each other.

He doesn’t remember ever being this happy.

Dean wipes a gob of chocolate and a fruit punch mustache from Sammy’s face with a cocktail napkin. “You gonna be okay here for a minute with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Bobby? I’m gonna go show Cas around campus real quick.”

Sammy nods and reaches for another cookie. Ellen takes it out of his hand and says, “Some days I swear you and Bobby are blood.”

Sam pouts and makes an indignant whining sound, but Ellen takes a bite of it before handing it back to him. “Last one,” she tells him with a sharp glare.

Dean huffs a laugh and says, “We’ll be right back,” then takes Cas by the arm and steers him out of the cafeteria.

“Where are we going?” Cas asks. Dean’s palm feels warm on his shoulder and a thrill runs down his spine.

Dean looks back at him and grins, dimples on either side of his face. “Outside.”

“There’s a blizzard outside,” Cas deadpans.

Dean looks at his hand on Cas’s shoulder and his eyes widen slightly before he lets go and puts his hands in the pockets of his peacoat.

“I know,” he says. He pushes a door open and gestures for Cas to walk outside.

Dean follows behind and turns left, Cas trotting after him to catch up.

Their feet crunch salt as they walk. A foot of snow stands on either side of the walkway, but otherwise the air is clear. The tip of Cas’s nose quickly numbs but there’s no wind. He shoves his hands in his pockets to keep them warm.

The campus is dark but for old, ornate lampposts lighting a soft yellow glow along their path. Cement, monolithic buildings that are numbered instead of named dot both sides of the path. There are no cars around, no people. A handful of tiny white windows in skyscrapers are lit in the distance.

The snow mutes all of it like a warm blanket over an upset child. It softens the edges, quiets the noise.

At home, everything is shiny and new and sparkles with magic. Here, pain and tragedy and oldness and ugliness exist, but the magic is still in all of it, in the history of every building, every lamppost they pass, every window lit disdainfully on the eve of Christmas.

“Are you cold?” Dean asks. The answer is obviously no, elves aren’t bothered by cold, but Dean follows it up with, “You can have my coat if you want.”

Cas chews on the offer, but unlike him, Dean _is_ physically able to be bothered by cold.

When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean stops walking and says, “Here,” pulling off his coat and holding it out to Cas.

Cas pauses for a moment and smiles to himself as he mutters a shy, “Thank you,” and slides his arms through the sleeves.

Dean is taller than Cas, but thinner, so the coat doesn’t fit well across his shoulders, but it’s warm and smells like Dean. Cas is dizzy with it, with Dean, with this world. Gabriel is going to come back for him any minute, so Cas sighs contentedly, enjoying all of this while he can.

They start walking again. The silence between them has turned strained, and Cas concentrates on it, wonders if he should make conversation, if he should have said something or maybe he did something wrong—

Dean takes Cas’s hand and threads their fingers together.

After another pregnant pause, Dean asks, “Is this okay? I know I didn’t ask if you were—I mean I just picked up this sense that you, that we—“

Cas smiles so wide he thinks his face might break in half. “My hand was pretty cold, to be fair.”

“Good,” Dean says, the worry in his voice replaced by relief. “I mean, it only makes sense. A warm coat is useless if your hand is still cold.”

Cas huffs a laugh and looks down at his feet, at his boots which have blessedly remained unfazed by Gabriel’s trans-realm magic influence.

“Do you want to,” Dean begins, “I dunno, hang out tonight? I know you only needed a place to crash until the weather lightens up, but if Narnia doesn’t cut it entertainment-wise, you can drink hot chocolate with Sammy and me while we watch Christmas movies.”

Cas opens his mouth to reply, but Dean adds quickly, “And then when he falls asleep, we can put on _Die Hard_ in the background while we wrap gifts.” He concludes with, “I mean, if you want. No pressure.”

“I’d love to,” Cas replies. He contemplates for a moment before asking, “Why _Die Hard_ though?”

Dean scoffs. “Duh. It’s the best Christmas movie of all time.”

“ _Die Hard_ isn’t a Christmas movie,” Cas corrects.

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Just because a movie is set on December twenty-fifth doesn’t mean it’s a Christmas movie.”

 _“’Now I have a machine gun. Ho-ho-ho,’”_ Dean retorts. “Also, it’s set on Christmas Eve, not Christmas. And it’s all about family and togetherness and shit.”

“I don’t call throwing Alan Rickman out a window and a heart-to-heart with the guy who played Carl Otis Winslow on _Family Matters_ grounds for the definition of _togetherness—“_

Dean abruptly stops walking. When Cas continues forward, Dean pulls him by the hand back toward him, smiling, and slides his other hand on Cas’s hip underneath his coat. The pool of light from the lamppost beside them casts the same innocent glow of his bedroom. His features are soft, his smile easy and wide, green eyes shining with all their bright intensity. He doesn’t let go of Cas’s hand while he uses his other to thumb gently over his hipbone.

Dean darts his eyes down to Cas’s lips, and Cas’s heart stops in his chest, his breath catches in his throat, eyes unblinking as Dean licks his lips and leans in closer.

His breath ghosts warm and gentle over Cas’s mouth, their lips barely an inch apart, cold air turning into clouds of condensation between them.

 _“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock…”_ blares from Cas’s coat pocket.

Dean squeezes Cas’s hand, lets go with an apologetic half-smile, and reaches into the coat pocket at Cas’s side. “Sorry, gotta get this.”

He presses a button on his phone and puts it to his ear, turning minutely away from Cas. “Hello?”

Cas blinks back into reality and takes a step away. He can hear distorted screaming in the background of the phone call.

Dean nods. “He’s just tired. He likes ‘Silent Night.’ Take him out to the hallway and sing for him. And rub his back. I’ll be right there.” He presses another button on his phone and puts it in his pants pocket while looking at Cas apologetically. “Sam’s had a long day.”

“We should get back,” Cas agrees, voice barely above a whisper as his eyes flit again to Dean’s lips.

Dean darts his tongue out to lick them, takes a step closer to Cas, hovers there, poised and tense, but then steels his resolve and steps away, turning and walking quickly down the sidewalk toward the cafeteria.

***

Sam stopped screaming, but he still cries quietly in his car seat on the way back to the apartment; tiny, broken sobs between shaken breaths.

Dean grips the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His jaw continues clenching and unclenching as he listens to Sam cry, presumably over both his tiredness and the parent-shaped emptiness in his big heart.

Hesitant, Cas reaches out and takes one of Dean’s hands from the steering wheel, folds it in his own and lays it to rest between them on the cold leather bench seat.

Dean’s shoulders relax and he takes a deep breath, squeezes Cas’s hand fondly.

After a few more minutes of broken sobbing, Dean starts to sing.

_Silent night, Holy night_  
_All is calm, all is bright_  
_Round yon virgin, mother and child_  
_Holy infant, tender and mild_  
_Sleep in heavenly peace,_  
_Sleep in heavenly peace._

Sammy stops crying, and soon the car is filled with Dean’s resounding baritone. His is the kind of voice that burrows its way into the chests of those who hear it, coaxes hearts from their undulating beat to that of the music.

Cas rests his head against the back of his seat, closes his eyes and feels the engine purr beneath them, feels Dean’s hand warm in his own, lets the music surround him and lull him into blissful relaxation.

***

Cas wakes up to the sound of the engine cutting off. Dean squeezes his hand as Cas opens his eyes blearily.

“Home again, home again,” Dean sing-songs, smiling at him in that way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I think Sam fell asleep too,” he whispers, passing Cas the keys. “Do you mind taking him inside and putting him to bed? I’m going to grab his presents from the trunk.”

Cas nods, and they both slide out of the car. Carefully, Cas opens the backseat door and gently unbuckles Sam’s harness. Sam’s eyes are flitting behind his eyelids, and when Cas picks him up, his little body is dead weight against his chest.

Sam shifts and makes a tiny noise, but Cas shushes him and rubs his back, walks him down the stairs and unlocks the apartment door.

As Cas turns the knob, he’s convinced Gabriel is waiting for him in the apartment, but when the door swings open, the room is filled only with darkness and furniture, a lone nightlight in an outlet by the floor the only light to guide him to Sammy’s room.

Cas lays Sam down on his bed and covers him with blankets. Without thinking, he brushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes and leans down to kiss his forehead.

When he re-enters the living area, Dean is standing in the tiny kitchen, opening cabinets and taking out ingredients. His jacket is discarded over a dining room chair, his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his bowtie hangs over his collar, untied with the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

Dean bends over, talking as he takes a saucepan out of a lower cabinet.

Cas tilts his head as he stares at the perfect curve of Dean’s ass in his snuggly-fitting tuxedo pants, throat suddenly dry.

“Do you?” Dean asks, standing up straight.

Cas darts his eyes up to Dean’s and feels his face grow hot. “Huh?”

Dean smirks knowingly and asks, “Hoth chocolate. Do you want any?”

Cas swallows. “Hot chocolate?”

“No, Hoth chocolate. It’s from a _Star Wars_ cookbook. Way better than hot chocolate.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you.”

Dean sings “Merry Little Christmas” quietly to himself while he puts all the ingredients together and turns the stove on.

Several minutes later, the coffee table is pushed back against the couch, two steaming cups of Hoth chocolate resting on top. Dean and Cas sit cross-legged while John McClane crunches his toes in shag carpeting much nicer than the old, brown, tattered carpet they’re both sitting on.

Dean upends a large shopping bag and pulls out a roll of Snoopy-themed wrapping paper along with some boxes.

“What’s this?” Cas asks.

Dean grins and opens the first one. Inside is a small pair of black shoes with a yellow Batman logo at the back of the heel. “The thrift store had these in Sammy’s size. They’re like brand new, and look…” Dean takes one out and hits the heel against his palm. Yellow lights dance along the bottom. “They light up!”

Cas laughs. “I’m sure Sam will love them.”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, it’s not much. I could splurge and buy him nice new shoes, but he’s just going to grow out of them by his birthday, and I’d rather spend the money on his dentist appointments.” He rolls out the wrapping paper and sets the shoebox on top. “I know Sammy isn’t going to understand why we can’t really afford nice things right now, but hopefully when he’s older he’ll be thankful all his teeth are still in his face.

“I could only get him a couple things this year,” Dean continues, cutting a clean line up the length of the wrapping paper. “Last year, you know, we had a big tree and a dozen gifts a piece and coffee cake and—“ He drops the scissors and freezes in place, hand trembling, swallowing audibly.

Cas takes his hand away from the shoe box and holds it. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, looking into Dean’s eyes, wide with memories that Cas doesn’t want him to recant on Christmas Eve. “You don’t have to. Let me.”

Cas lets go of Dean’s hand and finishes cutting the wrapping paper. He creases the edges around the box and flattens them with his thumbnail, then folds the corners delicately and tapes them at the bottom of the box.

Dean gets his drink from the table with shaking hands and sags against Cas, sipping lightly. He leans his head on Cas’s shoulder, watching while he works. “It’s hard being Santa,” Dean mutters from behind his mug.

“You’re telling me.” Cas unfurls a bright red ribbon and wraps it around the box.

“You have kids?” Dean asks.

Cas huffs a laugh. “No, I just… I have a big family. A lot of responsibility.”

Before Dean can ask any more questions, Cas holds the ribbon in both hands and says, “Finger.”

Dean sets his index finger on the knot and Cas ties a second one.

“You’re good at this,” Dean says. “Wrapping things, helping people, the whole ‘family’ business.”

Dean removes his finger and Cas ties an elaborate bow with the ribbon, sliding the edge of the scissors down the length of it so that it curls into a ringlet.

“Thank you, I—“ Cas looks up at Dean, who is staring at him with a sudden, unparalleled intensity.

Dean sets his mug down on the table and leans forward, reaches up to caress Cas’s face, thumb over his cheekbone.

For the third time, Dean looks at Cas’s lips with a longing and leans in—

A loud pop cracks behind them, and a voice says, “Told you I’d be back.”

Dean’s gaze darts to Gabriel and he stands up quickly. In one smooth motion, he hikes up a pant-leg and pulls a small gun from a holster on his calf. “What the fuck?” He steps over the boxes toward Gabriel, gun pointed at his head. “Who the fuck are you and how did you get in here?”

Cas scrambles to his feet while Gabriel replies, hands lifted, “I’m guessing by the general foul disposition and muscle car out front, you must be Dean Winchester.”

“And you’re about to be bleeding on my floor in five seconds if you don’t tell me how the hell you got in my apartment.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers and the gun in Dean’s hand turns into a candy cane.

“What the hell?” Dean asks, staring at the candy cane.

“Bit further north,” Gabriel replies. “C’mon, Castiel. This has been a fun little adventure, but you gotta come home now.”

“Dean, this is my brother Gabriel.” He turns his attention to Gabriel, balling his fists to keep his hands from shaking. “I already told you, Gabriel. I’m not going back. I’m not cut out for a life of materialism and blind faith. I belong here, with humans.”

Dean looks back at him and gapes. “What do you mean, ’humans?’ What the hell are you?”

Two tall, looming figures pop into existence on either side of Gabriel. He sighs. “You say you belong here, Cas, but you haven’t even told the person whose _kindness_ and _generosity_ saved you from ‘freezing to death in an alley’ that you’re an elf.” He gestures over his shoulder. “Michael, Lucifer, do your thing.”

“What kind of elf is named Lucifer?” Dean asks with alarm, backing up toward Cas to stand between him and the guy presently cracking his knuckles and sneering.

“A terrifying one,” Gabriel notes cheerily.

“We were named after angels,” Cas mutters, backing toward the wall.

Lucifer gains on them, Michael trailing closely behind. Dean is still holding his candy cane like a gun, and Cas is looking for an exit that doesn’t involve turning the wall into gingerbread in order to break through it.

A loud popping sound echoes through the room, and a bearded man in jeans and a red hoodie with white trim around the hood smiles at them. “Santa ex machina, bitches.”

Gabriel, Michael, Lucifer, and Cas all immediately kneel and bow their heads.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean asks.

The man holds his hand out for Dean to take. “You must be Dean Winchester. I’m Santa Claus, but you can call me Chuck.”

Dean puts the candy cane in his pocket and shakes Chuck’s hand, mouth agape. “It’s good to… meet you?”

“You too,” Chuck breaks the handshake and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for your loss, man. I know it’s been a tough year for you.”

Dean nods slowly, face screwed up in a mask of bewilderment.

“Castiel, buddy,” Chuck says, nudging Cas’s leg with his shoe. “Stand up.”

Cas stands, but doesn’t meet Chuck’s eyes.

“Why’d you run away? Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

Cas shrugs and toes at the carpeting. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

Chuck laughs. “You didn’t think _I_ would understand? Dude, you’re about to take over soon, and you think I wouldn’t _understand_ what you’re feeling right now? I was there, man. I wanted to run away too. But I didn’t. I stuck it out.”

Cas finally meets his gaze. He shakes his head tersely and replies, “You don’t get it. Presents, _things_ … it’s just _stuff_. It doesn’t actually _help_ anyone. Devoting an entire month to the concept of giving makes it obligatory, shallow, coerced.” He breathes out a mirthless laugh. “I can do more good here, with humans, than I can designing remote-control helicopters and tiny blenders. Giving is about kindness, but wrapping up useless crap and throwing it to the masses while most of the world can barely feed themselves seems so horribly unbalanced.”

Chuck pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re working on it. And when you take over the sleigh, you can work on it even more. But I still gotta train you. Your magic is strong but you can’t even bend space and time yet. There’s a lot of work to be done, but once you’re there, think of all the good you can do from home. Think of what you can accomplish once your magic is completely honed.”

Castiel nods. “That’s fair, but I just… I’m not ready to go back. Please understand. Please give me some time. I think being here is important training too, to not be closed off from the people I’m trying to help.”

Chuck looks from Cas to Dean, appraises him with a long glance and turns his attention back to Cas, face softening. “Yeah, I understand.” He sighs. “All right, here’s my offer: I’ll defer my retirement for another year, and you can hang out in the real world for a while. When a year is up, I would really appreciate it if you would come home.”

Cas considers it. A year would give him plenty of time to learn about humanity, its ups and downs and intricacies. He’ll learn all about the people he’s watched from afar for a lifetime, and he can go home and change the system, bend the status quo, clean up the skewed notions of what Christmas is supposed to be, versus blind, meaningless tradition.

He comes to a decision and nods once. “It’s a deal.”

Chuck pulls him in for a hug and pats him on the arm. “We’ll miss you back home. Send us some postcards, okay?”

Cas smiles wanly. “Of course.”

Chuck turns around and pulls Gabriel up by the ear. He winces and stands. “Ow ow ow ow.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Chuck asks. “I told you I would handle this. You can’t just _force_ someone to come with you—“

The four of them pop out of existence, and Cas breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

Dean turns to look at Cas, wide-eyed. His mouth hasn’t closed from its astonishment during the entirety of the transaction.

“So…” Cas begins.

Another pop echoes in the room, and Chuck reappears, alone. “One more thing,” he says with a smile, and snaps his fingers before disappearing again.

A pine tree threads itself up from the ground, trunk stretching tall to the ceiling while branches covered in pine needles grow from it along with shimmering golden ornaments. Tinsel twists around the tree and lights into a dazzling display.

Presents spin up from the carpet, dozens of gifts in a myriad of colors and sizes and shapes. A small track circles the three, a train rolling in slow circles around it.

The display is enormous. It takes up an entire corner of the apartment, and the presents span most of the room.

Dean takes a tentative step toward it. “What is this?” he asks in awe. Reaching upward, he gently picks up a pine cone from a branch and inspects it. He lowers it again as he turns to stare at Cas. A flicker of hope shines in his eyes, a juvenile whimsy that still exists in Sam, but until this moment has been dulled within Dean. “You don’t think… He couldn’t… Mom and Dad…”

Cas gives a small shake of his head and looks at his feet. “Elves are the purveyors of many miracles, but I’m afraid we can’t bring souls back to the material world.”

Dean swallows and nods, terse. After a pause, he says, “Hold on,” and dashes into his bedroom.

Moments later, he comes back out, holding a small box in his hands. Half of it is gray and charred, but Dean opens it gently in front of Cas.

Cas peers inside. A ceramic angel lies on its back. Part of her arm and wing are cracked and blackened, but otherwise she remains pristine, hands clasped together in prayer. Her hair shines golden and her eyes are bright blue. She’s smiling, and her wings span out wide behind her.

Cas picks her up from the box and holds her carefully.

Voice rough, barely above a whisper, Dean says, “It was the only Christmas decoration I could salvage.”

Cas thumbs over her damaged wing, letting the depth and darkness of Dean’s words settle in his chest. Chin trembling, his sight blurs. He nods slightly but doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Dean drags a chair over to the tree and stands on it, holds his hand out to Cas.

Cas gives the angel to Dean, and Dean reaches up to put her on top of the tree. She teeters, but Dean rights her, and then steps down from the chair. They look up at her, together, admiring the way she shines above the twinkling lights.

After a minute, Castiel clears his throat, and turns away toward his backpack, resting on the wall by the door. He kneels down and quickly reorganizes his possessions before closing the back and shouldering it.

“Where are you going?” Dean asks.

Cas shrugs. “Not sure yet. I just figured I’d get out of your hair. You don’t need a disgruntled, runaway elf messing with your Christmas more than I already have.”

Dean steps toward him, pushes his backpack gently off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. “Hey,” he says, taking Cas’s face between his hands. “Stop that. You don’t have to go if you don’t want, and you haven’t messed up anything. I’m glad you’re here. I mean, the whole Santa thing is weird, don’t get me wrong, but it’s… it’s kinda nice that there’s really some magic in the world to balance out the crap.” He smiles. “And… I couldn’t have done Christmas alone this year.”

Cas looks up at him, stunned. “Do you really mean that?”

Dean smiles. “Yeah. I mean, your brother owes me a new gun, but we’ll deal with that later.”

Cas grins, grips the sides of Dean’s shirt in his hand and drags him in closer. They stand chest to chest, Dean’s thigh slotted between Cas’s legs.

Dean’s eyes flutter across Cas’s face, and he asks, “What do you really look like?”

Cas blushes and looks away, undoes the magic over his features. His ears grow into fine points and his vision improves as the field over his eyes deteriorates.

Dean’s lips part as he examines Cas’s features. “Your eyes,” he begins, “God, they’re so _bright_.”

With a small shrug, Cas smiles shyly, and then Dean is on him, pressing him against the door and kissing him with a passion that knocks the breath out of Cas’s lungs.

Dean parts his lips and sweeps his tongue into Cas’s mouth, moans lightly as he cards his fingers through his hair. He nips at Cas’s lips and slots their hips together, crowds him so that every part of their bodies are touching. Dean lays open-mouthed kisses from his ear down to his throat, and Cas groans, clutches onto Dean’s hips and grinds against him.

He pulls away and, breathless, between kisses, he asks, “Is this okay? Because if it’s not, it’s fine. I don’t want to do anything you’re not comf—“

“Dean,” Cas replies, pressing at the center of Dean’s chest.

Dean gulps, covers Cas’s hand with his own. He looks beautifully debauched, shirt wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, lips swollen and red.

“I want you inside me,” Cas says evenly, voice husky.

Dean grins, devious, and leans back in, mumbling, “Well that answers my next question,” into Cas’s neck.

He thrusts his hips against Cas, and Cas lets out an embarrassingly loud moan. _“Dean,”_ he growls through gritted teeth. “Bedroom. _Please_.”

Dean smiles against his jaw, grabs Cas’s tie, and pulls him toward the bedroom.

He closes the door behind them and presses himself at Cas’s back, chin hooked over his shoulder as he nibbles at his earlobe.

Cas rests his hands on Dean’s forearms while Dean unknots his tie and unbuttons his shirt from behind. He reaches up Cas’s undershirt, trailing gentle fingers up his abs, and flicks his thumbs lightly across his nipples.

Cas gasps, unconsciously ruts backward onto Dean, and Dean chuckles filthily into his ear, licking a soft stripe up the shell of it. He ghosts his hands back down and unbuckles Cas’s belt, unbuttons his pants, teasing at his hipbones while Cas clutches Dean’s forearms and writhes against him.

His cock strains heavy against the elastic of his boxers, jumps every time Dean slowly scratches across his abdomen.

At last, he trails his fingers down the line of Cas’s hips, beneath his boxers, and grips him in hand. Cas gasps again, and his legs tremble. “Dean…”

“I got you,” Dean whispers, pressing a soft kiss to a spot behind Cas’s ear as he slowly strokes his length.

“I’ve never…” Cas begins, but Dean twists slightly at the head and Cas squeezes his eyes closed, bites his lip.

Cas can feel Dean smile into the crook of his neck. “What, you don’t make sex toys too?”

Tight and clipped, Cas replies, “Not my department.”

Dean hums against Cas’s throat, drags his teeth over the soft flesh. It sends a shiver over Cas’s body, makes him achingly hard as he thrusts into Dean’s fist.

Dean lets go and steps back, pulling Cas’s shirt off his shoulders and his undershirt over his head. Cas toes out of his shoes and socks, and Dean spins him around, kisses him proper.

It’s slow and deep and satisfying, the roughness of Dean’s hands sliding up his back, wrapping around his sides and pressing them closer together. Dean pulls away to fall to his knees in front of Cas, looks up at him through a fan of long lashes as he slips his fingers in the waistband of Cas’s pants, a silent question across his features.

Cas gives a small nod, and Dean slides his pants and boxers down. Cas steps out of them and Dean tosses them aside, running his hands up and down Cas’s thighs as he gazes at his cock, rises up on his knees to lick up his hips, moan quietly as he grips the back of his legs.

Cas runs a tentative hand through Dean’s hair, watches with bated breath as Dean licks up the length of him and takes his cockhead into his mouth. They lock eyes as Dean slowly sucks the rest of him down, all the way to the back of his throat.

Cas bites down on his lip to keep from shouting, and Dean circles his tongue around, hollows out his cheeks as he bobs his head slowly. He lifts off to wet his index finger, and reaches between Cas’s legs to slide across his hole while taking him in his mouth once more.

He circles around it gently, and Cas can no longer breathe. He’s probably gripping Dean’s hair too tight in his fist, his toes curl and he’s already right at the edge.

“Dean,” Cas pleads, voice utterly broken. “Fuck me, please for the love of god fuck me.”

Dean stands up and crowds Cas’s space, kissing him lightly before bending down and lifting him at the back of the knees, flipping him softly onto his back on the bed.

He slides his tie out of his collar and unbuttons the rest of his shirt, then pulls it off his shoulders and discards it, followed by his pants and briefs.

He crawls into bed, between Cas’s legs, and kisses up the length of his stomach and chest, landing at his lips. They kiss between quiet groans and panted breaths, and the feel of skin on skin is total bliss. Dean drags his dick up and down the slick length of Cas’s, and Cas wraps his legs around Dean’s hips. He can feel a puddle of precum pool at on his stomach, and Dean reaches into a small box by the lamp on the crate to pull out a tube of lubricant and a condom. Cas can hear the click of the tube opening and closing, and then there’s a slick finger pressed at his entrance.

“God you’re tight,” Dean groans, and pushes into the first knuckle.

Cas forces his body to relax against the intrusion. “More,” he demands, shifting his body to sink down further onto Dean’s finger.

Dean slowly pushes in and out of him, and then Cas is begging for a second finger, and a third. With every new digit comes the sweetest burn. Cas feels full and pushes against Dean’s fingers as he scissors him open.

“I’m read—“ Cas begins, but Dean crooks his fingers up and Cas chokes on his words, sees stars in his vision. He grips the sheets in his fists and thrusts his hips up unconsciously. _“Fuck.”_

“You like that?” Dean whispers from between his legs, and does it again, kissing the inside of Cas’s knee as he pulls his fingers out.

Cas clenches his teeth to keep from making noise, feels suddenly, horribly empty, but it gives him a moment to catch his breath while Dean rolls on a condom and lines himself up.

He leans down to catch Cas’s lips with his own, hover there while he slowly presses in. Cas can feel the head of his cock breach his entrance, stretch him wide. It burns, but the pleasure is so much better than the pain, and Cas croaks out, “More.”

Dean presses in further, pulls out an inch to push back in two more, until he finally bottoms out.

Cas runs a hand down Dean’s back, feels the bumpy ridges of his scarred skin like the charred remains of the angel’s wing. He feels Dean shiver under his touch, kiss his shoulders lightly, and they both take deep breaths, Dean stilled inside of him. Cas relaxes around him before shifting his hips, earning him a deep, muffled groan against his neck.

Dean pulls out and snaps his hips back in, fucks into Cas with abandon, faster and harder until Cas can’t control the noises escaping his throat.

Dean clamps a hand over his mouth and whispers with a lascivious smile, “Thin walls.”

Dean lets go and Cas bites into his shoulder to keep quiet. Dean hisses through his teeth and barrels into him harder.

“Hold onto me,” he growls, and Cas loops his arms around Dean’s neck.

Dean lifts him up, perches him on his thighs, and Cas sinks down further onto his cock, legs wrapped around his back while Dean pushes up into him, deep, hitting his prostate on every thrust.

Cas loses total control of himself. He can feel magic slipping from him, small dots of cold falling on his shoulders. They melt instantly and the water disappears from his skin.

“Cas,” Dean groans, clawing at Cas’s back, gripping him tight as he continues steadily pounding into him. “Is it snowing in my bedroom right now?”

Cas lets out a breathy, “Uh huh,” bears down onto him, and that’s the last Dean mentions it.

The friction of Cas’s cock sliding wet between their bodies puts him on edge. “Dean, I’m—“

Dean threads his fingers through Cas’s hair and pulls, sucks and bites at his neck and mumbles, “Come for me, Cas.”

Cas comes with shuddered, stopped breath, white-hot ropes coating his stomach and Dean’s. He can feel himself clench around Dean’s thickness, shuddering as he continues riding him, rocking his hips erratically through his orgasm.

“Oh _fuck,”_ Dean groans, and comes, forehead pressed against Cas’s chest. He pulls him by the waist down harder onto his cock as he continues grinding into him.

After a few heavy breaths, Dean lays Cas back down on the bed and slowly eases out of him.

Several minutes of clean-up later, Cas curls around Dean under the covers, arm over his waist, pressing kisses into the nape of Dean’s neck.

He continues kissing downward, over the large patch of reddened scar tissue, trails his fingers lightly over all of it. “Is this okay?” he whispers onto Dean’s skin.

“Yeah,” Dean replies quietly, and there’s a new depth to his voice, a resounding sadness, and Castiel continues pressing kisses to his body, all the way down over his hip and thigh and calf and back up again, everywhere there’s evidence of the ghosts of pain.

When he lies still at Dean’s back, Dean whispers, “I couldn’t save them. I got Sammy out, but I couldn’t… I tried to go back in and get them, but the fire was too… They were screaming. I can still hear it sometimes. I keep thinking that the music, the singing can cover it up, but it never does. It still feels so unreal sometimes. I wake up most mornings and I think I hear Dad whistling in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and frying bacon; Mom getting ready for work and rushing out the door.  But they’re never… God, the screaming just doesn’t stop some days.” He trails off and breathes in a shuddered breath.

Cas rolls him over so that they’re facing each other, and kisses the tremble from Dean’s lips, kisses away the frown that pulls at the corners of his mouth.

Snow continues to fall on them, but it’s a gentle touch of snowflakes on skin, a soft, tepid tickle that disappears instantly. As Cas kisses Dean, the snow slows to a stop and fades away. Cas runs a hand through Dean’s hair and says, “I’m here for you, if you want me, for however long you want me. It’s not much in terms of consolation, but it’s all I have to offer.”

Dean swallows and nods. “What about home?”

Cas shrugs. “We’ll see what happens in a year. Maybe you and Sammy can come with me.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Mr. and Mr. Claus.”

Grinning, Cas replies, “I like the sound of that.”

Dean looks up at him, watery-eyed but smiling anyway. He presses a small kiss to Cas’s lips and says, “I do too.”

***

Obnoxiously loud shrieking wakes them up the next morning. Cas bolts upright in bed, eyes wide. Dean follows slowly behind and groans, kisses Cas’s shoulder and mumbles, “Looks like Sammy found the tree.”

Dean rolls out of bed and stumbles over to a drawer, tossing Cas a pair of basketball shorts. They get dressed quickly to short bursts of excited non-words emanating from the living room.

Dean saunters out of the bedroom, yawning, and runs a hand through his hair. Sam runs into his legs shouting, “DEAN DEAN DEAN DEAN DEAN DEAN,” and Dean picks him up.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

“Dean-there’s-a-tree-and-presents-and-SANTA-CAME-SANTA-CAME-SANTA-CAME.”

Dean chuckles while Cas skirts behind them into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

“Yeah, he did. You wanna open them?” Dean asks, and sets Sam in front of the tree, sitting down cross-legged next to him.

Tentatively, Sam inspects the dozens of gifts, but his eyes come to rest on a box covered in Snoopy wrapping paper. He takes it in his small hands, pushes off the ribbon, and rips off the paper.

He opens the shoebox and takes out one of the shoes. After inspecting it carefully, mouth agape, turning the shoe over in his hands, he squeals in delight and shouts, “THANK YOU, DEAN,” and stands up, throwing his arms around Dean’s shoulders.

Dean laughs. “How do you know that one was from me?”

“Because I didn’t tell Santa I liked Batman!” Sam picks up one of the shoes and hits the heel with his palm, giggles raucously when it lights up around the bottom.

After making the shoe light up a couple more times, his smile slowly fades, and he sits down, face breaking.

“Hey,” Dean says, running an arm over Sam’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Between sudden, quiet sobs, Sam cries, “Jess doesn’t have any presents and if Jess doesn’t have any presents, other kids might not have presents and it’s not fair I get all these but they don’t get any!” He crawls into Dean’s lap and cries into his shoulder.

Cas pads over to the tree and picks up a present, checks the tag, and hands it to Dean.

Dean reads the tag too and smiles, then twists Sammy in his lap. “Hey, look. You know your letters. Sound out the name on the tag.” Dean puts his thumb below a J.

Sam sounds out the word. “J-eh-ss,” he says. “Jess.” He pauses for a moment and gasps, “Santa brought Jess presents?”

Dean nods. “I bet he was just running tight on time, and he left all these presents with Cas and I to hand out around town today, right, Cas?”

Cas nods. “Looks like we’re going to have to get dressed and find out who these all belong to.”

Sam gasps in excitement, jumps out of Dean’s lap, and runs into his bedroom.

Dean stands up and kisses Cas, languid and slow, arms wrapped around his shoulders. He pulls away and says, “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

Cas smiles. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”


End file.
